Tonight
by chocolatebearturk
Summary: In which there is ice cream, heartbreak, and strawberry syrup. kacy. jonas.


T_**o**_n_**i**_ght  
p _**o**_ t r

_Happy Birthday, Hayley. :) This one's for you.

* * *

_

Over the past three years, the only things that have really been running through your mind with any kind of consistency are what you would say, given the chance to go back and change the way things happened. There would probably be apologies and declarations of eternal love, professions of how you can't fuction without him in your life.

But the thing about the past is that it's passed and you can't do anything to change it, as much as you wish you could. As much as you wish you could go back to when he would laugh after you dropped a bowling ball on his foot or the times you snuck out to the twenty-four-hour ice cream parlor in the middle of the night to satisfy two-in-the-morning cravings for a banana split and found him already there, pouring on the strawberry syrup like he knows you love, you just… can't.

You can't count the number of times you imagined the moment when you met again—really, truly met again. Your eyes would meet his, timidly and with reluctance, and there would be a clear apology in your gaze. His own green eyes would pierce your soul and you'd be frozen in time as all the memories, the good and the bad, rushed to the surface and clamored for your undivided attention. And then he would smile warmly and you would know that you were forgiven.

But nothing—the three years of rehearsed apologies, the five years of heartache, the ten years of fantasizing about the moment that would mean everything, could prepare you for this.

**i knew i wouldn't forget you…**

The first time he catches you at the parlor, it's three in the morning and you're snuggled up in a pair of JONAS pajama bottoms and the kitty-cat sweater your grandmother knitted you for Christmas, with a long red plastic spoon in your hand. Your lips are chapping in the cold wind and you're sitting on a cold bench and your fingers are freezing from the cold plastic of the dish they gave you for your split. It's just cold, cold, cold, but his eyes are warm, warm, warm and they make you smile as he sits across from you, strawberry milkshake in hand.

There's silence for a long while, the comfortable kind, and the moon is getting lower when he finally asks the question.

"What got you out of bed at three in the morning?"

You just smile and slide the rest of your split over for him to finish as you get up. "The same thing as you, I expect."

**so i went and let you blow my mind.**

Two AM and the two of you are sitting outside the parlor for the second time, sharing the split with too much strawberry syrup and too little chocolate sprinkles. You always ask for more (sprinkles, that is) and you always ask for less (syrup, of course), but this is what you get and although you grumble and complain, the second you get to dig your spoon into the hollow he left behind, you find yourself as content and warm as the first night when he sat down across from you.

You apologize again for dropping the bowling ball on his foot and he laughs and tells you that it's no problem—and you didn't so much drop it as throw it across the alley. You blush and he grins and tells you he's kidding and his eyes warm up that melty place in the center of your heart where all the good feelings are. And they're pouring out all over the place and you don't realize that you're tilting the dish until he lets out a muffled curse and saves your flannel pajama pants with a quick swipe of his spoon.

He doesn't ask why again and you're not inclined to tell him—later, you'll fear that the lack of mystery will encourage him to stay home. If he still wants to know, he'll keep coming back…

Won't he?

**i knew when we collided…**

Your eyes meet his, timidly and with reluctance. You're trying to apologize without saying 'sorry.' His eyes are piercing your soul, cold green shards cutting and dicing and mincing and it hurts but you can't help that swelling feeling in your chest and the way your heartbeat thrums through your body. His eyes fill your thoughts and the memories don't come. Everything flies out the window, and you just have no idea what to say.

"H-hi," you stammer, blushing like crazy. Your eyes leave his and fall to the ground. You take in his bunny slippers with a tiny contented smile. His voice reaches your ears and you realize that _some_ things have changed.

"Hey," he says softly. Your eyes jump back to his, but you don't like what you find.

**you're the one i have decided…**

It becomes a thing between the two of you and no one really knows—or if they do, they don't say anything about it. You never tell him when you're going and he never tells you if he's going to be there, but by some miraculous coincidence, he's there every time you go. Sometimes he's late and sometimes he's early and sometimes you meet at the window and just stand there and smile. But he's there and that's what matters and the visits to the parlor are no longer an act of desperation—just a hope of seeing him and being warmed by those green eyes.

Sometimes you're tempted to ask him what brought him out to the parlor in the middle of the night that first time—but you don't, because he doesn't ask you and you really don't want to take the magic out of these meetings. The sad thing is, you know what's bringing him back. Whatever drew him out of bed the first night, _you_ are what keeps him from sleep in the early hours of the morning.

And so here's the difference between your fangirl days and now: you don't want this.

**who's one of my kind.**

You've lost track of the number of times this has happened. That your eyes have fallen on that curly head of hair and the smile has broken out on your face and the air is suddenly less chilly, although your insides are freezing up. He's chatting up the guy behind the window, grinning and probably asking if they can refill the strawberry syrup dispenser, despite the fact that you can plainly see he's drowned the split in it already.

Something grabs your stomach and gives it a sharp twist and your intake of air draws his attention. He's grinning broadly and you return it with a weak smile as you close in on "your" bench. You made this decision and you can't back out now—you have to tell him. Before you both get hurt.

You open your mouth after ten minutes and he shoves a bite of ice cream inside. You squeak with surprise and turn shocked eyes to his face.

"Don't," he says. Can green burn so intensely? You think, in that moment, that it can. "Whatever it is… not tonight."

You swallow. And nod.

**the smell of you**

Two visits later and you still haven't told him. You're starting to wonder if he knows already and he just doesn't want to hear it from you. But from the way his hand lingers on yours when he passes you a napkin and the way he blushes when you smile at him and thank him for his company, you know that he doesn't know what he needs to.

A part of you wants to hate him for doing this—for making this so hard for you. Any other time and you would have welcomed the distraction that he provided for you; you would have easily taken the out and never looked back. But there are feelings hanging in the balance and you just can't do that—not to him, not to yourself, not to your friends. You want him to be the first to know, and he just can't seem to let you get this over with.

Finally, you swallow the bite of banana in your mouth and say, "I was offered a scholarship by the University of California. They have one of the best women's sports programs I've ever seen, but it's early decision. I'll have to leave at the end of the summer."

He doesn't seem to be listening, but digs his spoon into the ice cream again, popping the bite in his mouth. Only the fact that he doesn't smile blissfully after each bite shows that he heard what you just said. It seems to take forever for him to decide that he'll speak. When he does, your heart sinks down low, low, low in your stomach.

"Best of luck, then," he says. He puts down the dish and slides it toward you before he gets up and walks away. Your eyes follow him as his figure blurs and eventually turns the corner and you can't seem to force a bite of ice cream into your mouth around the sobs. You shove it away so that the tears won't taint the sweetness in the dish and think that you must be the only girl in the world who will never be able to battle a broken heart with a bowl of ice cream.

**in every single dream i dream**

The trip when you tell him about the scholarship is the last time you'll go to that ice cream parlor for three years. You can't bring yourself to go, afraid that you won't see him or, worse, that you will. You spend every night of the summer planning what you'll say when you finally get up the courage to go back (you never do), and it's something along the lines of (or sounding exactly like), "All you need to do is say the word and I'll stay."

But he never hears it, never knows it, because you're too afraid of what you'll find if you go back.

The sendoff party his brothers throw you is big and fun and wonderful and everyone is in tears by the end. You get multiple hugs from everyone there and they all tell you how they'll miss you and it'll never be the same without you. You tell them that you'll be home for holidays and it'll be like old times all over again. When you go to board the plane, they're all there to see you off. You try to meet his eyes, but he's staring at the ground.

So you turn around and you don't look back.

**just in time…**

It's four o'clock in the afternoon and you're standing in line outside the ice cream parlor because they aren't open all night like the one back home. You order a banana split with strawberry syrup—not too much!—and chocolate sprinkles—just enough!—and you put it in a to-go container and rush it back to the dorm before it can melt into an unattractive mess.

You wake up at four in the morning with that intense craving and head to the minifridge next to your roommate's desk. It's sitting there, pristine and perfect and your mouth waters at the sight. And then you take the first bite and you _cannot_ stomach the taste. There isn't enough syrup and there are too many sprinkles and tears spring in your eyes when you realize that he made it perfect every time. You leave the rest for your roommate to eat when she'd like and crawl back into bed.

It isn't the first time you've cried yourself to sleep and it certainly won't be the last.

**i'm so glad you have a one-track mind like me.**

There isn't anger in the lines of his face, nor is there forgiveness in the set of his jaw or rejection in his eyes. It's just blank, blank, blank. And that, you think, is worse than rejection and worse than anger because at least with those you know where you stand. You think that you've never seen him looking like this in your entire life and that makes you extremely sad. He's always got one emotion or another written across his face and the fact that _you're_ the person who's taken them away makes you feel…

"How's college life?" he asks. You wince. He asks it every time and there's always this deeper sting to the words. He's not asking how life is at your college. He's asking how life is without him. Every time, you say the same thing, because it doesn't matter what the words are. He'll hear what he wants to hear.

"It's okay," you always say, because you don't want him to worry and you don't want him to know (even though you really do) that you miss him every second of every hour of every day and that no one laughs the way he does when you drop bowling balls on their feet and he always made the banana splits perfectly right and you hate, hate, hate yourself for ever thinking you could do without him in your life. But you smile and continue, "It's lonely sometimes, but I'm alright."

Now, you don't say what you always say. You say what you _want_ to say. You stare at the ground and mumble, "Sucks. I miss you all the time. No one on the bowling team laughs when I drop my bowling ball on their foot. I can't get the server to make the banana split right."

You hear him suck in a breath and you think that maybe he isn't as blank as he appears to be and you're about to take a peek at his face when he suddenly grabs hold of you and pulls you close and you wonder why on earth you spent all this time lying and hurting when you could be here. He's so _warm_ and you're so _cold_ and it's like everything is suddenly where it's supposed to be and you realize what an idiot you were to think that this could ever be a bad thing. You manage to wind your arms around him and you feel him getting your hair wet with his tears and he's whispering to you the whole time.

"Macy, don't you _ever_ do something like this to me again," he finally croaks into your ear and you nod, because even though you have to go back when the break is over, you're willing to do anything to fix what you did. You've realized in the past three years that you can't not have him in your life.

After a while, he's calm. And after a while, you're finally able to let go without feeling like the world is falling to pieces. He gets the two of you a banana split to share. There's more strawberry syrup than ever, but you know that it's perfect before you even take the first bite.

**hey, soul sister  
****ain't that mr. mister****  
on the radio, stereo?  
the way you move ain't fair,  
you know.  
**

**hey, soul sister,  
i don't want to miss a  
single thing you do…  
tonight.

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**

a/n: Hayley, you are my soul sister. I will never, never be able to replace you with anyone in the world, because you are so uniquely you. I wish you the best of luck in your final year of school, and the happiest eighteenth birthday any girl has ever had. :) Love you, Baby Girl.

To all my other readers, thanks so much for sticking with me during my JONAS dry spell. I'm working to complete my chapter stories and write some new oneshots soon. The new season isn't exactly… inspirational. But I'm still writing, still living, and still thanking whatever higher power you believe in every day for having the awesomest friends, fans, followers, and readers in the world.

Love,  
Beth.


End file.
